But I want to. Want to shove him out and lock the door and pretend he didn’t see how twisted things have become inside my head.
How the darkness doesn't just whisper anymore—ithooksinto me, finding every insecurity and magnifying it.
"Poppy." Wylder's hand tightens around mine. "Poppy, look at me."
I force my eyes open.
Even in the darkness of my bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, I can see that his expression is fierce. "There is nothing inside you that will make me think less of you. For over a month, you’ve been fighting a literal demon for control. That you're stillyouis remarkable."
"It doesn't feel remarkable. It feels like I’m drowning."
"Then let me throw you a line."
He closes his eyes again, and I follow suit. When his presence enters my mind next, I don't fight. I try not to flinch or hide the corruption or pretty it up or pretend it's less than it is. Instead, I let him see everything.
The constant and growing pull toward violence.
The way Tharuzel's voice sounds almost reasonable sometimes, offering power and protection in exchange for small concessions.
The exhaustion of fighting every single day just to stay myself.
Wylder doesn't flinch. He doesn't retreat. Instead, his magical essence heals the corrupted parts of me, shoring up my mental shield.
"Now," he murmurs, "imagine a box. Something strong. Something that belongs to you, not him."
I search through my mental landscape. Everything feels tainted, marked. Then I find it—the memory of my mother's jewelry box. Carved wood with brass hinges, small enough to fit in two hands but sturdy. She kept her grandmother's ring in there, her wedding band when she was pregnant with my sisters and too puffy to wear it, every precious thing she wanted protected.
“Okay, got it.”
Wylder exhales next to me. "Now we take Tharuzel’s influence and we put it there. It sounds simple, but it's not. It’ll take time and effort, but I’ll get you there.”
I can think of a dozen other ways I’d rather him ‘get me there’ while lying in this bed, but sadly, Tharuzel ruins everything.
He chuckles beside me. “I’m sharing your thoughts with you right now, remember?”
“Uh… yeah, sorry.” Heat burns my cheeks, and I’m suddenly thankful we’re lying here in the dark.
“All right. Now, let’s move anything tainted with his dark influence into the box and lock it away.”
It takes a few tries to figure out how to manipulate things within my mind. Eventually, I get it, but the moment I try to gather the corruption, it fights back.
Tharuzel’s voice snarls through my consciousness, and the darkness burns stronger.You are mine, Poppy Hallowind.
And in the darkest recesses of my soul, I’m terrified he’s right. "He's stronger than I am.”
“No, he’s not. And even if you think that, you can’t think he’s stronger than both of us." Wylder's magic surges, reinforcing mine. “Try again.”
Together, we wrangle the black tendrils of Tharuzel’s dark influence. They writhe and resist, trying to sink deeper into my thoughts, but slowly—painfully—we force them into the mental jewelry box.
The longer I work, the louder the demon's whispers grow. Desperate promises of power. Threats of pain. Reminders of the blood contract binding us.
But with Wylder's steady guidance, they lose their bite.
When I shove the last of the corruption into the box, I slam the lid shut. In my mind's eye, I see brass clasps clicking into place, a lock turning.
The silence that follows is unnerving.
It’s not a complete extrication—I can still feel Tharuzel's presence and know he's there—but the constant pressure of growing darkness has eased.
